


Drawing the Line

by theclouddetective



Category: Death Note
Genre: ADHD, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Artists, BPD, Canon Autistic Character, Chronic Pain, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, LGBTQ Character, Multi, Neurodiversity, OCD, Other, POV Alternating, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Surreal, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclouddetective/pseuds/theclouddetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artist!au testing relationships against the burden of creation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Element

**Author's Note:**

> The Elements of Art- building blocks of visual art.

Darkness settled on the sand with a kind of blue importance, painting the walls of water black as they dragged themselves to the shoreline. White caps foamed at the tips of the waves, dividing reality into separate parts. The tides came in a rhythm, washing in and out in a complex pattern. Pale hands gripped at the scrubby plants crowning the dunes that surrounded the small, private beach. The dusk tides appealed to Nate- the pattern of movement was complex enough to engage, but predictable enough to comfort him. It had been years since he had found the dune, and he had watched the scape shift steadily from the same point, returning every evening like clockwork. A flash cracked against the deep blue, and Nate’s vision swam as he cringed. 

“I thought you didn’t like photographing waterfronts.” Mihael lowered his camera, squinting.  
“I’m not going to waste my time just standing here. You dragged me out and I intend to work.” Nate hummed, then stood carefully, not bothering to brush the loose sand from his pants. In retrospect, he should have known showing Mihael the dune was a bad idea. He had long ago learned that their arts did not mingle without a spark, which was fine. The problems arose when Mihael refused to separate his personal life with his artistic one. He was not one for photographing waterfronts, but there was a waterfront, and there was Nate, and so he indulged. It was better to leave him to it. The darkening horizon was beginning to press down on him, and the camera flash bore into his head with a dull ache. Nate tugged at Mihael’s sleeve, motioning for them to leave, and for once, he sighed and complied. 

The little cafe had become a kind of haven for artists and stoners alike in the area. It was essentially a remodeled victorian overlooking a stretch of beach and part of LA’s sprawling lightshow with a small counter at the front featuring jaded college kids who handed over coffee and alcohol with a clink of change and a sigh. Customers could tuck themselves into a number of rooms fitted with local pieces and ancient furniture at any hour of night or day, and while the coffee was less than affordable, the privacy was ideal. It was named Pergolesi, though Mihael liked to call it ‘the purge’. Nate folded himself into his usual chair and passed Mihael a few crumpled dollar bills, then wrapped his arms around his legs and closed his eyes. He didn’t have to tell him what he wanted- his order hadn’t changed since L had brought him here the very first time. It wasn’t long before Mihael pressed the warm glass into his hand and slid a plate down in front of him, and he would have remained motionless had a familiar voice not broken over the dim music the cafe played.  
“Oolong again?” Nate opened his eyes to Naomi’s sharp gray eyes and heart-shaped face, hummed his ascent, and shut them again.  
“Not like he’d ever drink anything else,” Mihael told her, chair scraping to the side. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”  
“I just flew in today. It’s lucky I saw you, actually, I was just going to go back to the studio,” she replied. “Do you mind if I join you?”  
“Not at all.”  
“And you, Nate?” he nodded, and she sat, bag slung across the back of her chair.

“How was Greenland? I heard you had quite a successful shoot,” Mihael twisted his fork into the chocolate cake The Purgolesi was known for, and Naomi drew her lavender-vanilla froth between her teeth.  
“It went rather smoothly. The team I was working with took direction fairly well.”  
“They’ve probably heard of you. You’ve been working your way to big leagues lately.”  
“It’s likely. I’ve been told my documentaries are influential. Who knows why. All I do is film.” Mihael shrugged and filled his cheek with cake.  
“Maybe that’s why. Anyway, are you still seeing that guy?”  
“What? Oh, Raye? Yes, we’re still seeing one another.”  
“Beyond won’t like that very much,” Nate chipped in, swirling his tea with his index finger. Naomi rolled her eyes.  
“No, I don’t suppose he will. I’ll deal with him some other time. Are he and L still sharing an apartment?” Mihael cringed.  
“No. They had a bit of a falling out.”  
“Oh?”  
“Something about another kitchen fire. You know how he is.” Naomi sighed and put down her drink.  
“I thought that arrangement would be short lived. Anyway, I’m not one for gossip.”  
“No,” Nate told her. “You aren’t.” Naomi turned her attention to him, fixing him with eyes that had dissected and pinned up dozens of people through a camera lens. He found her company mildly uncomfortable because of that lens. Mihael’s work was about himself, he saw the world through his own eyes, and that was reflected through the camera. Naomi saw the world as it was.

“What have you been working on, Nate? You were between projects the last time we spoke.” He ducked his head and stared at the dregs in his tea for a moment, gathering a response.  
“More designs. Nothing out of the ordinary.” This was a lie. Or partially, anyway. It was true he was working on designs- the same design, in fact, that he was just beginning to piece together just after Naomi had left. Perhaps he’d tell her about it at some point- Naomi was a trustworthy confidant, if astute to the point of intrusion- but not in front of Mihael. It was a far cry from ordinary, and as Nate peered over the rim of his glass, he could tell Naomi had figured that much. She raised an eyebrow, sipped her drink, and seemed to let it slide. The pressure in his chest rose, and he felt exposed. The rest of the evening passed with the regular pleasantries, discussions, political criticisms, and workplace conversations Naomi seemed to carry around with her, though Nate was more than usually withdrawn. He was anxious to return to his drafting table, fingers itching for the mechanical pencil and mind aching for the empty place it reached when it worked. Mihael took no time to notice his behavior, but Naomi must have, and to his relief, she called their meeting a night sometime around eleven. 

He took little time for goodbyes, feet set for the studio before their conversations could pull him back, leaving a damp ring where his glass had sat and a curt word or two behind. The exhaustion that came from that level of interaction settled into his bones as he drew nearer to his studio, lamplight setting him aglow. The studio was nothing but the top floor of a three story brick building with two small windows and a rooftop escape, but the clean white walls and dim lights were home to his piece of mind. He climbed the steps to the cold apartment, locked the door behind him, flicked on the desk lamp, and began the process that would carry him through to the dawn.


	2. Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line- An element of art defined by a point moving in space. Line may be two-or three-dimensional, descriptive, implied, or abstract.

Dawn was dragging its way back across the horizon, pale, pink, and early when Nate finally put his pencil down, stretched warily, and he dragged himself over to bed. His mattress was tucked into a corner of the studio, laid flat on the floor (Nate had never been very fond of heights, and found he prefered sleeping closer to the ground). A cloud of white pillows, blankets, and the pale blue weighted blanket he favored were wrapped neatly into a kind of folded nest, and he left on a pair of socks just beside his pillow. The floor bothered his feet, but he hated sleeping in them, so he kept a pair on hand. He spent the next few restless hours watching the patch of wan sunlight from his singular window change colors; blue, orange, gold, pink, white. The timer on the electric kettle dinged, and the orange light on the side flicked on as it began to steam gently. Nate groaned warily, accepted he wasn’t going to get any sleep, and padded over to the counter, sliding open the drawer packed with exactly twelve boxes of Oolong tea. He had had to work through three staff members and the manager at the Pergolesi in order to contact the distributor (with Mihael’s help), and since then had kept twelve boxes in his house studio exactly. No more, no less. He had planned four cups daily for himself (discounting the times he was dragged to Pergolesi and the cups L made for him when he was having a Very Bad Day), and had the boxes delivered on the second saturday of every month.   
Patterns, symmetry, and design where the foundations of Nate’s life, no matter how nonsensical. It was really no wonder he had secured the basis of his career in architecture. The drafting table was as much an extension of him as an arm or a leg was- possibly ever more so. The sheets he had been working on for months now were folded neatly into the table’s drawers, indentations, and pigeon holes, rubber banded together with blue elastic. Other supplies were kept neatly in their allotted places, his favorites tucked into the mug Mihael had given him at the university Christmas party when they had still dormed together. He dimly suspected the gift had been a joke (Nate had never been too good at understanding jokes), but the beautifully painted clouds that splashed across the outside were dear to him. On the inside bottom of the cup, the words ‘good morning, sunshine!’ were painted in cursive.   
Nate’s mugs, despite the aberrance on the desk, were a uniform white. There were twelve of them exactly, each ringed with a blue stripe at the top, and two sat steaming on the counter while he showered (the bathroom outfitted in bare blue and white) and dressed. L was already sitting in the middle of the studio when Nate stepped out of the bathroom- he had a habit of letting himself into people’s apartments, and Nate was no exception. He was stirring whatever god forsaken sweetener he’d brought along with him into his mug and staring at the ceiling idly. Nate had long since given up trying to convince him Oolong really wasn’t meant to be sweetened like that. L’s eating habits were as nonsensical as everything else about him, and at least it wasn’t so bad as the time he poured syrup on his spaghetti. L cradled the cup in his fragile-looking hands, long, artist hands, watching the steam curl towards the ceiling before catching Nate’s eyes, then pointing to his shoulder, where his pale hair was dripping onto his white collar.   
“Have I ever told you that your hair looks like dripping icicles? When it’s wet like that, I mean.” Nate rolled his eyes and jolted his tea bag up and down within the cup twelve times exactly, then sat on the floor across from L.  
“My hair looks like my hair.”  
“Right. Of course. Apologies.” L stirred his tea with his index finger, licked off the excess syrup that clung to the side, and drained half the cup in one go. “Sleep poorly?”  
“I suppose so.” L tutted, then noisily downed the rest. Nate held back a cringe at the sound.  
“You really should be getting more rest.”  
“You have no room to criticize my sleep schedule.” Nate put the rim of his cup between his teeth and inhaled, but did not drink, letting the steam wash over his tired, aching face.  
“Hm. No, I guess not. Automatic exercises today?” Nate sighed, then nodded, listening intently as L shuffled about papers and pen boxes. He was a multimedia artist, specializing in the surreal, and a brilliant one, but Nate found his methods too inexact, too unpredictable. There was nothing he couldn’t do, which meant he tried everything, and Nate frequently found himself caught outside of his comfort level during these exercises. He found himself unable to complain, however. L’s methods, though messy, helped produce some of the most beautiful pieces Nate had ever made, and vice versa.  
“Excellent,” L hummed, blowing a puff of air up his face to clear his hair away, folding a large sheet of paper delicately. “Why don’t we begin with exquisite corpse?” 

 

Mihael’s work was legendary in exactly three places;   
1\. the underground poetry scene, particularly that in backstreet LA  
2\. a somewhat obscure Russian photography magazine, including its almost cultish following, and  
3\. every inch of his saturated brain.   
It was this legend that created him as an artist and a friend- and also why, unfortunately, his kitchen was now a complete mess, and there was blood on his couch.

“I still don’t understand why you tried to talk to her,” Mihael snapped, tossing a rag down onto the flour-spattered counter. “Much less break into her studio. What the hell were you thinking?” Beyond chuckled hoarsely, ice pack pressed to his ruined face, which was honestly more patches than solid skin color at this point. Vitiligo had washed porcelain patches into his brown skin, scars dappling the left side of his face and backs of his arms like ripples on water. He pushed his matted hair back from his face, squinted, and stuck out his tongue.  
“You would have done the same. Or at least something similar. Rash behavior is your- our, specialty, no?” Mihael sighed and slammed a few cupboards, concentrating until the only ticks remained in his right hand. He breathed. He breathed. He breathed.   
“I may have done. But I wouldn’t have used that as an excuse.” Beyond snorted and returned his attention to his fat lip and black eye Naomi had doled out on him when she’d run into him in the studio hall. The black eye was before she knew who it was, Beyond had told Mihael when he showed up, grimacing on his doorstep. The busted mouth? That. That is a personal infliction. And thus, meaningful. Do not touch it please. Mihael would have turned him out, but Mail was out on a ‘project’, and it was good to feel wanted. The initial 2 AM ‘poor bastard’ had dissolved into ‘fucking bastard’ not long after Mihael woke to a kitchen that belonged in the seventh layer of hell.  
You’re lucky I’m lonely, Mihael thought to himself, bitterly sweeping up eggshells and sage clippings. You’re lucky I’m lonely and you’re lucky I’m bored and you’re lucky I wasn’t clocked out with a more reliable friend. He grunted and pulled another ice pack out of the freezer (there wasn’t exactly a short supply, both he and Mail were more- volatile in their actions).  
“You trying to make me pretty again? It won’t work.” Beyond snorted, reaching for it.  
“Oh I’m sorry, I thought you’d bruised your dignity and could use a little help, but it looks as if you didn’t have any in the first place. Either that or it’s so swollen that it’s practically functionless.” Mihael’s tone dripped with sarcasm, but Beyond’s skin was waterproof.  
“Very funny, now dámelo.” He obliged, tossing the pack over his shoulder. He breathed, he breathed he breathed.

 

Nate was halfway through the third panel in the exquisite corpse when the flip phone on the counter buzzed, jolting him. L looked to it, then to him, raising an eyebrow. Only two people contacted Nate regularly, and the first of them sat across from him. Which meant it was more than likely-  
“I can’t stand this bastard anymore. I’m coming over to your apartment. I’ll be there shortly. Spare me the tea.” The line clicked off, and Nate replaced the phone, the facial tick that must have accompanied the sharp message swam in his head.  
“Mihael?” L mumbled, and Nate nodded.  
“Excellent. I’m developing a new method of automatic drawing. Three points. He’ll be very useful.”  
“The corpse isn’t divisible by three.” Nate bristled slightly at the intrusion, he hated people dropping by without notice, but curled his hand around his hair and attempted to relax. L glanced at the corpse, and Nate grimaced, shoulders stiffening. He ruined it. He wasn’t supposed to see it like that. He ruined it. The thoughts drummed at his skull, and he twisted his hair to dispel them. L seemed to notice, and paused, lips pursed.  
“Oh. My apologies.” He brushed the edge of the paper with his fingers. “We could continue if you like.” Nate felt vaguely sick at the prospect, and shook his head.  
“No point. It was getting too detailed anyway. I doubt you would have been able to wait for me, even if I could finish it. You know how I get lost in these things.” L nodded solemnly, thumbing his bottom lip.  
“I am not a patient man. Pity. I like your drawings. The detail is incredible. Especially within your hyper-focused work.” He folded the paper so all the marks were hidden. “You’d prefer if I disposed of this, rather than look at it, am I correct?” Nate nodded, and the suffocating sickness eased a little.  
“Thank you.” The peace was short lived, and the clatter that Mihael rose while banging on the door was enough to drag him into a pounding headache, and he covered his ears while L slunk over the answer the door.   
“Wonderful, Mihael, sit down and take a pencil. Yes I know you don’t draw very often but you don’t exactly have your camera or your guitar, do you, and besides, you’ve taken the prerequisite drawing classes when you were in art school, don’t lie to me. Listen closely, listen closely, we’re going to try something new.”   
Nate closed his eyes again, then cast a longing look towards his drafting table, where the plans he’d been slowly cobbling together seemed to scream for attention. He heaved a sigh and attempted to return to the conversation, almost giving up entirely when he watched L arrange a bag of nonsense in the clear space between them, their bodies forming a rough triangle.   
But he did as he was told, and drew. The plans were not everything. Not quite. Not yet. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> -An exquisite corpse is a style of collaborative drawing in which a paper is folded and passed from person to person, each individual contributes a section of the drawing without looking at the other sections. Once each section is filled, the drawing is unfolded and appreciated as a whole.
> 
> -An automatic drawing is a method of drawing in which the purpose is to strengthen observational skills and achieve a looser creative mindset. This is done by drawing an object or person, often multiple times or from multiple angles, as detailed as you can without looking at your paper. Some versions of automatic drawing encourage as few strokes as possible (often one continuous line), while others allowed limited looking at the paper.


End file.
